


Sewing the Seeds

by sparrow2000



Series: Cracks in the World [3]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 15:19:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4268250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrow2000/pseuds/sparrow2000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene from my story The Beating of the Bounds (the second story in the Cracks in the World 'verse). This ficlet won't make any sense unless you've read the previous stories in this series.  Willow gets some stuff off her chest and the Tailor listens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sewing the Seeds

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings – The misspelling in the title is deliberate *g*  
> Disclaimer – Joss and Mutant Enemy et al own everything. I own nothing apart from my OCs  
> Beta extraordinaire: thismaz  
> Comments as always are welcomed, cuddled and called George...
> 
> A number of readers commented at the end of The Beating of the Bounds that they wondered what Willow and the Tailor talked about while the rest of the gang weren't around. I thought I'd evesdrop on their conversation and find out...

**Sewing the Seeds**

Willow had never realised that the sound of doors closing had weight. It was more than the physical sound of the heavy wood as the library doors started to swing shut. It was the sensation of the air against her skin and the heaviness in her chest, as she pictured the blank face of the girl with the dress following Buffy and Giles on their way to face the Master. It was the feel of Xander’s hand in hers that said he trusted her. That she could trust in him.

She stared at the doors, watching until the momentum of the swing slowed and finally stopped. She took a breath, gathered her scattered thoughts and her courage,and turned to face the old man who had presented an unlikely solution to the prophecy in the Codex. The man who, in her mind at least, presented as many problems as he seemed to solve.

The tailor sat at one of the long sides of the old, wooden, library table. She wondered if the positioning was deliberate, not too near the head and not too near the foot. As if staking the middle ground of a piece of furniture gave physical evidence of his neutrality, or perhaps, more likely, his ambiguity. She shook her head, impatient with her own musings and focused back on the tangible presence in front of her.

His head was bent over a square of fine green silk. His fingers were nimble, despite the swelling in the joints of his wrists. As she watched the needle fly, fast as quicksilver, a fine hem seemed to grow like magic on the silk.

She took a step closer. Then another, and another, biting her lip, trying to keep the torrent of words in her brain from spilling out and ruining the silence. The needle flew and she breathed. Then finally, suddenly, the damn broke. “I feel like I want to dislike you,” she said and her hand flew to her mouth, appalled by her rudeness.

The tailor chuffed and raised his head from his work. “You don’t know me well enough to dislike me,” he said. He placed the silk square down on the table and smoothed it gently with the pad of his thumb. “What you want to dislike is a facet of my craft.”

“I don’t want to dislike it,” Willow replied. She took another step forward, stopping behind one of the chairs at the end of the table. It felt like protection and suddenly she was brave. “I do dislike it,” she continued. “There’s a difference.”

“There is,” the old man acknowledged. “So you contend that I am the sum of my craft?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Ah, the certainty of youth.Would I be here if I was?”

She frowned. “I don’t understand?”

“Certainty could be the very definition of youth for many people. But with age comes doubt and shades of gray and nuance. You dislike my work with the skins. You think that it makes me a bad man. If I was a bad man, do you think I would have come to help?”

“You did it because Xander asked you?”

“Correct.”

“So you did it for Xander.You didn’t do it for Buffy?” A small voice in the back of her head told her she sounded childish, but she ignored it and waited for the tailor’s reply.

“Correct again,” he agreed.”I don’t know the Slayer. I know of her role and I know it is not an easy calling. Being Chosen never is.” He paused and seemed to consider his words before continuing. “But I know Xander,” he said eventually. “Do you see the difference? I know how he thinks. How he daydreams. I know how he works. Can you say the same?”

“Don’t tell me I don’t know Xander.” She took a step out of the shelter of the chair back, then stopped, shocked at her own aggression. The little voice was back, whispering that the tailor had a point, if only she would admit it. “I’ve known him since kindergarten,” she said quietly.”He’s my best friend.”

“And you trust him?” the old man asked. If he had any inkling of the turmoil in her head, he gave no outward indication.

“Of course I trust him. How could you suggest anything else?” Indignation was a more comfortable state of mind, she decided, but it still felt somehow wrong in the face of the tailor’s quiet questions.

“I didn’t,” the tailor replied. “You did. You think I’m a bad man. I understand that. But Xander asked me for help. That would tend to suggest that he trusts me. He said so before he left”

She pushed a strand of hair away from her face. “I know he did. You’re just twisting what I said. That’s not what I meant.”

The tailor sat back in his seat and cocked his head to the side. “Then tell me what you meant.”

The silence in the library had never seemed so deafening. She could hear the tick of the clock and the creak of wood as the tailor shifted in his seat. She could almost hear the old man breathing as he watched and waited for her reply. “It’s just, we’re friends,” she said slowly. “Best friends. Me, Xander and Jesse, we were like the Three Musketeers. Then, then Jesse died and now it’s just the two of us. It’s different and I understand that. We’re grieving and there are books about that, about the stages, and we’re going through that. But long before that, Xander started working with you. He started to change and I didn’t know why. He got quieter, more serious. It wasn’t obvious unless you knew where to look. He was still a big goofball and he and Jesse had the worst jokes. But sometimes he was quieter. And then it was like he’d remember to be funny Xander. But sometimes, it’s like, like an act, or a costume he wears. Sometimes,” she faltered, staring down at white knuckles that had somehow clutched at the arm of the chair without her noticing. “Sometimes, I’m not sure which one is the real Xander now.”

“Have you talked to him about it?”

She shook her head.”It wouldn’t do any good. He’d just tell me a joke and change the subject.”

“How do you know if you don’t try?”

She scratched restlessly at the inside of her elbow. “I don’t know what to say,” she admitted. “I don’t like feeling like that. I don’t know why I’m telling you this?”

Settling his hands over his stomach, the tailor looked at her over his glasses. “For all I am a grumpy old man, I’m a good listener. It’s important in my profession to listen. Sometimes people don’t really say what they want, but they expect you to know and are very displeased if you make them a double breasted suit with three buttons, when they actually wanted single breasted with two buttons. We may live on the Hellmouth, but some clients don’t seem to realise that I’m not actually psychic.

She started to giggle, then stopped abruptly, turning it into a cough to mask her reaction.

“Uncertainty is uncomfortable isn’t it?” the tailor continued.“I remember the day Xander arrived in my shop. Twelve years old and so uncertain. Eager to please and so scared of doing something wrong.” He smiled. “But I’ve watched him grow up over the last four years. He’s still not certain of things, but in my mind that’s a good thing. He’s come to understand that there are no absolutes. No black and white. He’s grown up and I’m very proud of him.”

“Have you told him that?”

The tailor chuckled. “Touché. Like you, I find I don’t know what to say. When you play a role long enough, such as stern master to struggling servant, it is difficult to break free of the mould, don’t you think?”

A picture of Xander wrestling with his math homework, while she tried to help without actually doing it for him, flitted through her mind. The image bolstered her resolve. She glanced at the chair at her side and, mind made up, sat down, hands clasped in her lap, as if they would do something she didn’t approve of if she didn’t keep them under control.

“Tell me about the dress?” she said.

“What do you want to know? I’ve already told the Slayer that the origins of the skins are not for discussion.”

“How did you,” she hesitated. “How did you make it come to life?”

“You saw how. It was a spell. Mr Giles did a spell.”

“I know.” She unclasped her hands. Her fingers kneaded restlessly at the fabric of her skirt.

“I assume you didn’t know he could do magic?” the old man asked. “All Watchers have some ability. It’s just a matter of degree.”

“I hadn’t really thought about it. I mean, it seems obvious now I am thinking about it. With all the other stuff – vampires and hyena possessions and invisible girls – Mr Giles doing magic shouldn’t be a shock. I knew he could do a spell because there was the thing with Amy’s mom, but I kind of thought it was a one-off. You know, like something he used to solve a problem? Like when you get a hard equation in math and you know how to apply a trig formula, then bingo, there’s the answer and you can move on to the next question.”

“And now?”

“I just hadn’t thought that he could actually do magic. You know, actually applying knowledge, rather than just reciting a spell from a book. And having spell stuff in his office because it’s part of being a Watcher. It means it’s there all the time.”

The tailor nodded. “I suppose it is.”

“So why didn’t he use it to solve other stuff, other problems? Could he have made Marcie visible, or magicked Morgan’s brain tumour away, or –“

“Magic isn’t a tool. It’s not a blunt instrument,” the tailor interrupted. “You can’t apply it to every problem. You mentioned equations. Equations have to balance, don’t they?”

She nodded.

“So does magic. It has consequences. The energy you expend in a spell has to be equal to the scale of the problem you want to solve, or the importance of the act you wish to carry out.”

“Cause and effect,” she said slowly.

“Something like that,” the old man agreed. “It’s all in the intention.”

“Mr Giles kept saying ‘intention’ in the spell – ‘hear my intention, feel my intention’. I think that’s what he said?”

“Well remembered.” The tailor studied her over the rims of his glasses and she fought down the urge to squirm in her seat. “You’re a good student. Xander always said you were. I wonder, if you could, would you use magic to pass a test here at school?”

“Of course not,” she said. “That would be cheating.”

The tailor leaned forward, picked up the green silk and ran his thumb gently across the neatly hemmed edge. “I have a modicum of magical knowledge. You might say it runs in the family. But I would never use magic to create a pocket square. Or to cut a collar, or set a cuff, or sew the button on a fine linen shirt. My skill and my craft is tailoring. My tools are my hands and my scissors, my sewing machine and my years of practice. They are my bread and butter, as it were. These I have passed on, such as I can in such little time as we have had, to Xander. What he does with them is his own business, but they are honest skills and he can use them in any number of professions, if he decides tailoring is not his calling.” The old man paused and placed the silk square back on table between them. “But the basics of tailoring is all I have taught him.”

Willow leaned forward, elbows on the table. “But,” she started.

“Of course, he has seen things,” the tailor interrupted. “He would not have known to ask me to create a simulacrum for the Slayer if he hadn’t. But seeing is one thing. Understanding is another. And practicing is a different thing entirely. Even if he does decide to continue with me, it will be a long time before he would become deeply involved in the more arcane side of my trade.”

“I don’t understand,” she said. “He was part of the previous spell. The one to create the original dress. That’s why he insisted he had to be part of this one.”

“True,” the old man acknowledged. “But that was at the chaos mage’s behest, not through any design of my making. I had wanted him to be as far away from that spell as possible, but time and circumstance overtook us and there was no choice but to proceed. But I repeat again, that I have taught him to tack, and hem, to measure and cut, to work the sewing machine and care for his materials. Those are the building blocks of my craft. The same applies to any craft. Until the basics are learned, absorbed and have become second nature, progression to more complex stages is ill advised at best, and disastrous at worst.”

“Don’t you think you’re exaggerating just a little bit?” Willow replied. “I mean, how disastrous can it get?”

“Have you ever seen a piece of ruined silk? Or a fine linen with an iron burn? Or a piece of velvet with the nap pressed the wrong way? It takes so much time and skill to create something, and so little time to destroy it.”

“Are you still talking about tailoring?”

The tailor grinned. “Of course. But it’s a good metaphor for almost anything in life, so you may take it any way you wish.”

“I want to dislike you,” she said with a sigh.

“You have reinstated the ‘want’.” If anything, the tailor’s grin got wider and she thought fleetingly of the Cheshire cat. She wondered if that made her Alice. “Do I detect a note of uncertainty, where there was previously none?” he asked.

“Perhaps?” She shrugged. The indifference was pretence, and she had a disturbing feeling that the old man could read her like a book, despite his earlier protestation that he wasn’t psychic. “I like things to be straightforward,” she said eventually. “But they’re not, are they?”

“In most cases, no. And for the other rare circumstances where they appear to be simple, I would measure twice before cutting, just to be sure.”

“Another metaphor?” she asked.

“Maybe.”

Willow snorted and the tailor chuckled in return.

The silence settled between them. The tailor picked up the square of silk from the table and studied the hem on one side before he picked up his needle and thread. The Cheshire catness of a moment before had disappeared and he looked exactly as he appeared to be – an old man stitching a pocket square with care and precision, and the ease of someone who had been plying his trade for more years than she, or perhaps even her parents, had been alive.

“Is it difficult?”Willow said finally. “Sewing, I mean?”

“It depends on who you ask,” the tailor replied with a smile. "Twelve year old Xander would have said yes. But then, so would I at twelve. Have you never sewed?”

“Not really. I had the option to take a class, but my mom pushed me to take a higher grade math class instead. She thinks that teaching girls to sew and cook in school is just the establishment’s way of reinforcing gender stereotypes.”

“Well, that’s definitely a point of view,” the old man replied. “Or perhaps it might mean that you can take up the hem on your own jeans, or skirt, or make your own prom dress without having to pay someone to do it for you.”

“That’s a different perspective.”

“There’s always more than one.” He paused, needle poised over the silk. “Would you like me to show you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Would you like me to show you how to sew a hem.”

“I...I...guess,” she said. “I mean, I don’t want to stop you finishing what you’ve already started.” She pointed at the green silk in his hand.

“You won’t be. This I can finish anytime. But a first stitch is an important moment. I’d be honoured to show you how.”

“Well, if you’re sure.”

The tailor fished in his pocket and brought out another silk square, a deep peacock blue this time. He pulled a needle from the lapel of his waistcoat and a reel of thread from the inside pocket of his jacket. She wondered if he had a rabbit or a bunch of flowers in the other pocket. “I always travel with remnants,” he said. “You never know when the smallest scrap might be just the thing you need. Now, for the first lesson - how to thread the needle. Because nothing can start until you can achieve this first step. This is where you start to learn control.

Willow pushed her hair behind her ears and pulled her chair forward, until she was sitting within touching distance of the tailor.

The old man lifted the needle and the deep blue reel of thread.The eye seemed impossibly small and the thread impossibly thick.

Maybe he can do magic, she thought. She leaned forward, chin resting on the heel of her hand, and watched.


End file.
